


Silence (but it claws at your ears)

by QuenchiestCactusJuice99



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: mute character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:23:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuenchiestCactusJuice99/pseuds/QuenchiestCactusJuice99
Summary: Magic has a certain... magic about it. It’s awe-inducing, amazing, incredible - but it holds less importance with Cornelia.Even magic, after all, still cannot fix her voice.(And isn’t that just proof that she isn’t worth the effort?)





	Silence (but it claws at your ears)

The Potter triplets were the worst thing to ever happen to Privet Drive, most felt. The poor Dursleys, having to host the three, especially the two reckless delinquent children who switch places too often.

 

Harry and Holly Potter were nearly identical. Harry’s hair was long enough to cover his scar, and Holly’s was cut short to the same length, while Cornelia’s was bright red, waist length, and entirely unmanageable. They all had the same almond-shaped eyes, but Harry and Holly shared an emerald green while Cornelia had a soft hazel. Harry and Holly both needed glasses, and Cornelia did not. Harry’s voice was a little high, Holly’s was a little low, and they delighted in switching places often.

 

But if you were to ask anyone to describe Cornelia Potter, the only answer you would get would be ‘quiet’. And no one could quite tell you anything else, besides that she has brilliant red hair, or that she has hazel eyes, or that she was never called on in class. Superficial things, surface things, because she was quiet and she faded into the background and no one thought to actually talk to her because she never talked back.

 

Dudley Dursley says everything about Harry and Holly Potter he can, insults and rumors and many things, but he never has much to say about Cornelia. “She’s quiet,” He’d say with a shrug, and others would take it to mean she’s tolerable.

 

Harry Potter, if you were to ask him, would push his taped glasses further up on his nose and say  _ it’s really none of your business, is it? _

 

Holly Potter, if you were to ask her, would roll her eyes behind matching taped glasses and say  _ she is a little strange, isn’t she, _ but with good humor and the air of a sibling poking fun at another.

 

But if you were to know Cornelia, even the slightest bit, you would know that she was not quiet as they would say, no, but that she simply did not say anything. The Dursleys would call Harry ‘freak’, call Holly ‘she-devil’, but they’d see silent, obviously not quite right in the head Cornelia and say, ‘poor thing can’t think right, best give her simple chores to do’. Harry would bristle in indignation on his sister’s behalf, but she would smile at him and he would back off with much glowering.

 

“Nel,” He’d whisper, late at night, “Nel, you’re ten times smarter than them, they can’t call you dumb.” And she would smile again, small and fragile and undoubtedly smarter than the average child, but shake her head. She’d press a hand to his arm, tracing letters slowly. ‘Okay’.

 

And Harry will sigh because she means that everything is okay, that he shouldn’t worry, and not that she won’t let them call her brain-dead right in front of her, as if she can’t grasp what they mean.

 

(But Nel, silent, intelligent Nel, is quite alright with these arrangements. She is quite alright to stand in a corner or against a wall looking blank, because the Dursleys don’t bother to send her away when they talk, believing her incapable of understanding them. After all, she has so very much to learn, and so very little time.)

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Wizards!” Harry tells Nel excitedly, hands pumping hers up and down. “Or, well, wizard and witches,” He corrects, almost an afterthought. She whistles happily back at him, hazel eyes laughing in that way she has. Harry likes watching people wince when she whistles really high, but she’d told - written, whatever - him that she likes whistling because it makes her feel like a bird. Harry thinks Nel would make a pretty good bird; she can certainly snatch things well enough. Even Holly can’t stop her from sneaking things out of pockets, even in plain sight.

 

Rubeus Hagrid is a man who might be entirely too large for comfort, but he’s very nice and he’s taking them shopping for  _ magic  _ school supplies, so Harry is inclined to like him that much more. Nel, usually sticking back and away from new people, is neither shy of the man nor apparently taking note of how she - already small for her age - was absolutely dwarfed by his size. It was rather silly, but Harry could certainly imagine a little bird Nel perched on the shoulder of a giant tree Hagrid. The absurd picture made him laugh, and quicken his steps to catch up with the other three, Nel and Holly already jogging to keep with Hagrid’s long strides.

 

Magic was endless possibilities, so many options and adventures, but Harry doesn’t think he’d enjoy it half as much without his sisters beside him. And anyway, he was the oldest, however short that gap was, and no matter how adult-ish Nel and Holly could act, so he had to make sure they were okay too. It’s practically his  _ job _ .

 

(He rather likes the idea of magic pranks, though.)

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The train ride is better than Nel could have hoped. Her brother is famous and she’s still getting used to that, but at least it means she’s always pushed out of the spotlight, just as she likes it. Holly doesn’t mind either, though people keep getting her and Harry mixed up. It’s undoubtedly the funniest thing she’s seen so far. And Harry has a friend already! Ronald Weasley is awkward but so are Holly and Harry, and Nel isn’t exactly one to talk either - literally - so they all get along like a house on fire. Although Ron has absolutely no tact and is exceedingly curious about why she doesn’t talk, the trip is fun, and so are the boats.

 

As much as Nel likes to feel like a bird, fish is probably more accurate. She wonders idly if students are allowed to swim in the lake; it’s cold in September, but the black water is oddly inviting. Yes, Nel has been told many times that her mind doesn’t work like other peoples’, and it seems to be neither Harry nor Holly quite agree with her sentiment about the water, as far from the edges of the tiny boat as they can get even as Nel drags her fingers through the cold liquid, grinning at her reflection.

 

She’s almost disappointed when they have to get out, but it’s drowned by the feelings she has for this so-called ‘Sorting’.

 

She doesn’t believe a word Ron’s brothers have apparently told him about the Sorting being ‘defeat a troll’. That’s just  _ ridiculous. _ The death toll would be enough to ward off any students at all. If the Houses have defining traits, than wouldn’t they need to analyze student personalities by the hundreds every year? It would take far too long by interviews, and students could easily lie; there were plenty eleven year olds capable of deception. Even if the teachers could tell lies from truth, or had a way to accurately discern the correct traits, it would still take much too long.

 

So it must be a spell of some sort, though as soon as she has the thought Nel shudders, tongue clicking nervously against the roof of her mouth. She has absolutely  _ no  _ intention of letting anyone into her mind ever at all. Anyone or any _ thing, _ it occurs to her suddenly. Perhaps it was a magical artifact.

 

That made her feel only infinitesimally better. People were one thing, she likes the idea of sentient objects much better. As long as they couldn’t move, she amends, so she could walk away from a conversation she wasn’t liking or prepared for without seeming excessively rude to anyone or anything besides the object. Even then, it might not care. She was certainly no expert on magical artifacts. Or magical anything, really. Yet, that is.

 

She shakes her head, trying to clear out the useless clutter-thoughts in her brain, before tapping her fingers absently against her robed thighs, looking around for a distraction. Her legs were tired and she wanted to sit down.

 

The desired interruption came in the form of a boy with blond hair coming up to them. She knows him, from Madam Malkins, and he asks if her brother is really Harry Potter, eventually starting on about Weasleys and ‘telling the wrong sort’ and Harry shakes him off with ‘I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks’ and Nel, facing the argument, can see the exact second the boy loses his mask.

 

Nel is young, smart, silent. She sees, and knows her brother does not. This is a smart boy, but Nel finds that he is not on par with her. He is eleven years old and has offered a hand in friendship in clearly the only way he knows how, and has been swiftly denied. A smart boy indeed, but Nel is privy to the exact second - and that is exactly how long it lasts, a second - that his confident mask breaks, and he looks  _ utterly  _ lost and alone in this sea of students.

 

It may last only a second, but one second is all the time it takes for Cornelia Potter to plop her thin, tiny, delicate-looking hand right in Draco Malfoy’s where her brother had refused to place his.

 

She smiles at him, happy and lopsided, and she knows her vibrant, excessively curly hair has been forced into a messy bun that she hardly managed on her own, wand holding it in place like a hair stick, that her hazel eyes are crinkled at the corners in the way that makes her eyes look like they’re smiling too, knows that she looks suitably underwhelming compared to Draco’s neat robes and styled hair. She knows, and decides right then and there that she doesn’t care, and if Draco doesn’t either, good for him, but she’s made up her mind.

 

Draco will be her best friend whether he likes it or not, and he can’t stop her. No one can.

  
(And if her eyes glint with wicked mischief, well.  _ Well _ . It’s really everyone else's fault for not noticing, isn’t it?)


End file.
